


L-O-V-E

by iknowhowyoukiss



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CS AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6129958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknowhowyoukiss/pseuds/iknowhowyoukiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Emma Swan expects in the wake of her ex-boyfriend wanting to get back together with her is for a man dressed in a giant dog costume to show up on her doorstep with chocolates and flowers in tow. Scratch that. The last thing she expects is to fall in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_L is for the way you look at me._

It always amuses her that January 1st comes along and all of the stores will have already switched out their Christmas and New Year’s decorations in preparation for Valentine’s Day. It doesn’t seem to matter that the holiday (if you can even call it that) is still a month and a half away from the start of the year, wherever you go, everything is decked out in an annoying overabundance of red, pink, and white.

It’s probably Emma Swan’s least favorite holiday of the year, if she has to pick one, but if there’s one thing she _does_ like, it’s the markdown on candy once it’s all said and done with. She can make do without all of the stuffed animals (what do people do with giant pink elephants after the fact anyway?), the cheesy cards, the ‘Stupid Cupid’ parties, and the hearts all over the place, but the candy? _Oh_ , she loves the candy, and there’s nothing better that helps brighten the mood than indulging in some discount chocolate and getting a nice dose of endorphins with it.

As if to punctuate her point, a giant ostentatious display of Hershey’s chocolate -- _on sale_ \-- looms into view as she rounds the corner of the last aisle and finds herself in the produce department. She almost snorts as she reaches for a bag of Kisses (foiled in red, naturally) and aggressively throws it into the cart with the rest of her groceries. Just before she sets off, she changes her mind at the last second and makes a grab for a bag of Hugs as well (wrapped in pink and silver, _god_ ) and a couple of candy bars of Cookies ‘n Cream with white hearts on the packaging.

The cart is pushed past another stand, this time advertising different arrangements of white and purple orchids (complete with _heart balloons_ ). Her eyes roll at the ‘discounted’ prices for a flower that’s probably going to die before the week’s out, and while she doesn’t fall over herself trying to get the blossoms into her cart to bring home, she smoothly snags two bottles of wine by the neck at a neighboring display as she moves by it. The alcohol goes in the front compartment of her cart for safe keeping and, after the week she’s had, she’s already looking forward to cracking into one (or more like both). It’s _pink_ Moscato with -- surprise -- more hearts all over the label, but she’s never been one to turn down liquid candy, especially at a lower cost, so she can overlook those minor details.

Deeper into the grocery store, the Valentine’s decorations become less prominent and she thanks the supermarket Gods for a little red, pink and white reprieve. She wanders around aimlessly, no destination or particular item in mind, crossing each aisle and giving the shelves a quick glance before continuing to the next one. After the fifth aisle, another sale catches her eye and she has to backtrack with the cart to get a better look at the sign.

The advertisement is yellow, a half-sheet sized paper with big, bold, capitalized font that she stares at for a solid minute: _SMARTWATER! 2 FOR $4!_

It’s a steal for water, at least, so she’s convinced herself in the last thirty seconds she’s spent standing there reading the words over and over. The way she sees it, water is nourishing. The body is 70% water or some statistic like that. People can’t go more than three days without it before beginning to experience the symptoms of dehydration. She thinks she read that somewhere once.

Or maybe Mary Margaret told her the week before midterms Freshman year of college three years ago, when they’d all been laying on the ground amidst binders and notes and three-pound textbooks, wondering how many days it had been since they’d been out of the dorms for longer than an hour and had a proper meal -- water included.

But that’s beside the point. The point is, is that water is important and she wants- no, she _needs_ it.

She turns the cart into the aisle and heads closer to the shelves designated for the brand, finding that the problem lies in the fact that other people seem to have had the same thought, because the Smartwater section? Almost completely empty, and the remaining bottles? Well, they’re located on the top shelf which _normally_ wouldn’t be such a big deal because Emma can actually reach that high, but these are _in the very back_ and they are _definitely_ out of her grasping range.

Now, the bottom shelf is completely (enticingly) devoid of bottles and deep down she _knows_ it’s a bad idea but...she gets it in her head that she might be able to reach the water with a little bit of a boost. She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on it while she weighs the pros and cons of attempting to execute this plan. On the one hand, she doesn’t really feel like dealing with the possibility of bringing down an entire section of the store. But on the other hand, she really wants the water.

_Screw it_.

She _needs_ the water.

So she places a boot-clad foot on that last level of shelves, applying a little bit of pressure and testing its sturdiness with some added weight beneath her heel. It gives a tiny bit, not very much but enough to make her reconsider this brilliant (idiotic) idea of hers a little bit. But she’s too far gone now. She _has_ to get the water, it’s a matter of principle. It’s like that cliched saying, the one about always wanting what you can’t have.

That thought especially strikes a chord with her, deeper than she would like, and it’s because she has to swallow back the lump of emotion suddenly lodged in her throat that she grips the top ledge with both hands and prepares to hoist herself up. Her body appears to be stuck, however, and she is unable to move her other foot onto the make-shift step stool.

She knows she must look like a fool -- one of her feet propped up, booth hands gripping the edge of the display, frozen in place while wondering how she’d allowed herself to get to this embarrassingly low moment in her life. She can only hope no one walks by and that-

“I’m not sure it’s worth it.”

_Shit._ Well, there goes that hope. Straight out the window. Emma sighs, moistening her lips with her tongue before pressing them together. So much for not getting caught.

She doesn’t glance over to where the voice came from, or at its owner, despite the fact that the very masculine tone and the unexpected English accent pique her curiosity enough to make her want to. Whatever embarrassment she might be feeling is masked by a lick of irritation that shoots across her shoulders. Where did this guy even come from? She didn’t even hear him walk up.

“Of course it’s worth it,” she retorts, just a hint of defensiveness in her voice. “Do you know how much these bottles normally sell for?”

“It’s just water,” he replies, and she can sense the nonchalant shrug he gives her without even looking at him. “Why don’t you drink from the tap? Or just take any number of these other brands. They’re all the same anyway.

“They’re on _sale_.” She says it like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and this time she _does_ glance over at him.

And her brows promptly shoot up into her hairline.

_Well._

He’s tall _._ That’s the first thing she notices, since she has to tip her face up to speak to him, but it’s not what she lingers on -- dark-haired, blue-eyed, chiseled features; there’s even a day’s worth of scruff shadowing his jaw.

_Well_.

She blinks at him, as if doing so will magically alter what she’s looking at. It doesn’t, and her eyes briefly flicker downwards, noting that his lean frame is wrapped rather neatly in deep blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket. She tells herself she’s not impressed. She’s seen it all, honestly, and she knows the type -- the _‘bad-boy-more-trouble-than-they’re-worth’_ type _._ (He’s got _eyeliner_ on for crying out loud.)

Emma huffs in annoyance and attempts to give him her best _‘go-away-if-you’re-not-going-to-be-helpful’_ look.

“I can’t,” he replies, seeming to read her thoughts. “I’m too involved now. You’ve left me no choice. If you insist on risking bodily harm for a bottle of liquid, I’ll be forced to stay here and help you.”

His face is completely serious, but she doesn’t miss the teasing amusement in his eyes, or the way his gaze remains steadily on hers.

“My hero,” she deadpans, rolling her own eyes at him. “So now you’re gonna be a gentleman?”

“I’m always a gentleman,” he answers, smile blooming on his lips as he sets his basket down and approaches her. “And as such, I always help a damsel in distress.”

_Oh_ , she scoffs to herself. He just thinks he’s _so_ smooth. He’s probably used to women falling at his feet with those looks and that voice and that charm. Pfft. Well, not today and certainly not _her_.

“I’m handling it!” Emma tells him. She doesn’t snap but it’s a near thing.

“This whole thing is going to bloody collapse on you,” he insists, simplifying the matter by reaching up past her shoulder to retrieve the items she wants. “Besides, do you really want to deprive me of a dashing rescue?”

He has the gall to wink at her, right over his shoulder, and she gives him a sarcastic little smile back.

“My arm span is longer anyway.” His chuckle is rich, deep and grumbling in his chest, irritatingly pleasant to her ears. He hands her the first bottle, grinning again as he watches her regain her footing after backing away from the shelves. “Two?”

“How many are left?” Emma wonders.

“Six.”

_Screw it_. You can never have too much water and if he’s going to play the chivalry card anyway... “Oh, what the hell, I’ll take all of them.”

His brow arches at that but he makes no comment on the matter as he continues to reach for and pass her bottles. He _does_ make a comment about the food in her cart, though, when he’s successfully cleaned the store out of Smartwater.

“Are you secretly a twelve year-old boy?” he wonders, voice having a ribbing quality to it as he turns to face her and gestures at her groceries.

She supposes it does look funny, her cart stocked high with a few quarts of different flavored ice cream (not her fault, they were on _sale_ ), all that chocolate she’d just picked up earlier ( _definitely_ on sale), cookies (heart-shaped, also on sale), an entire gallon of milk (not on sale, but necessary for the cookies), chips (almost five dollars for a whole bag, absurd if you ask her, but she needed something salty), and the two bottles of wine ( _S-A-L-E_ ). 

“I’ll never tell,” she replies, and she has to press her lips together when she realizes her answer is accompanied by a little smile.

He gives her a solid once-over, and it’s hard to ignore the appreciative look that comes into his eyes. (And the little jump in her belly when his gaze meets her’s once more after his little perusal of her.)

“Well, for what it’s worth, you don’t look like one, love.” His brows move up with his words and she wonders if that particular ability is natural or something he’s spent time perfecting in the mirror. (It wouldn’t surprise her if it were the latter, honestly.)

“Guess I lucked out,” she shrugs. “Anyway, thank you for the help.”

He holds her eyes for a moment longer -- searching, openly curious -- and for some reason, she feels like she’s being read like a book or something.

“What?”

He merely smiles again, a gentle curving of lips before extending his hand out for her to take. “Killian,” he says, introducing himself. “Killian Jones.” 

She doesn’t hesitate to slide her palm over his, and that surprises her. Even more surprising is the fit of their hands together and the warmth that ignites where they touch.

“Emma Swan.” Her brow furrows as she contemplates him, a nagging itch appearing between her shoulder blades. “Wait a second. I know you.” 

He looks startled by her statement, if the way his eyes widen is anything to go by. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, gaze flitting across him as she mulls over why he’s suddenly so familiar to her. She’s always had a knack for faces, it’s weird that she wasn’t able to identify him right away. Particularly with a face like that. Then it flashes into her like someone flicking on a light switch. “Yeah, I do,” she tells him firmly. “Mythology with Professor Aidoneus, right?”

He reaches up to scratch behind his ear, cheeks tinged pink. His apparent embarrassment is both peculiar and endearing. “Every Tuesday night,” he confirms.

She hates that class. Three-hour class with a snipey professor who gets more glee out of the students’ pain than teaching them anything of value. The only saving grace is that the material itself is actually interesting.

Yep, she definitely remembers now. He sits in the back, last desk in her row, and seems to spend quite a bit of time doodling on the margins of paper (she’s seen his quizzes come up from the back) instead of actually paying attention. Not that he needs to.

“You have the highest grade,” she says absentmindedly.

“To his never ending chagrin,” Killian beams proudly.

Emma snorts. At least the Professor is miserable for it. She shakes her head then clears her throat. “Well, I’ve got to go, thanks again for the help.” She begins her retreat with backwards steps, watching him as she leaves and pulling her cart along with her.

“Hey,” he calls out. “If you ever need a study partner, I’d make it a point to be available.”

It’s hard to resist rolling her eyes, but somehow, she manages it. “Part of your ‘hero’ services?”

“Perhaps.” His shoulders move up to his ears in a casual shrug and he gives her another killer smile. “Though presently my only clientele consists of a stubborn, pretty blonde with green eyes. Which is fine by me as she’s the only one I’m interested in anyway.”

She fixes him with a bored look as he is _so_ typically male and she is completely unimpressed. _Completely_. “You know, I’m rather happy with my B+ in that class.”

He chuckles at her, thumbs hooking into the pockets of his jeans as he rocks back onto his heels. “Regardless, the invitation still stands.”

“Oh,” she gives him a quiet laugh as she maneuvers the cart around and starts towards the checkout lanes. “I’m sure it does. Goodbye, Killian.”

She doesn’t turn to give him a final look, but she feels his eyes on her until she disappears around the corner.

\-----

When Elsa and Mary Margaret return to the apartment for the night, Emma is hours deep in the movie Titanic with a blanket around her shoulders, a carton of ice cream and a spoon in her hands, and a box of Kleenex in her lap. As soon as she sees them, tears involuntarily start to pool in her eyes again. She sniffles and rubs at her nose with her tissue then gestures in annoyance at the TV before promptly launching into a rant about how Jack could have lived if Rose had just taken off her stupid life vest and stuck it under the door while Jack climbed onto it with her. (She saw it on an episode of Mythbusters once.)

She misses the way Elsa and Mary Margaret eye each other, but she’s been friends with them long enough to know instinctively that there is an exchange of looks and a silent conversation that happens between them -- over _her_ , she suspects.

They approach the couch and she doesn’t bother sparing them a glance, particularly when she sees them in her peripheral vision, mulling over her grocery loot. She knows what it looks like, this whole _‘eating-junk-food-and-watching-heart-wrenching-tear-jerkers’_ thing. It looks like she’s moping or something, and that is most certainly _not_ the case here. Her snacks may be haphazardly spread out on the coffee table, and yes, she’s a little bit of a mess, but she’ll clean it -- and herself -- up after she’s done with her movie.

Besides, if there’s anyone to blame, it’s this stupid film’s fault. She had come home and turned on the TV only to find that it was on, and it was the beginning of the end. It’s terrible, but she’s such a sucker for it. Even if the horribly painful outcome will never change no matter how many times she watches it.

Rose will let go and she’ll live on without Jack for years to come. Oh, she’ll love him still, and miss him terribly because nothing can take away the magic of first love, especially if it’s a _lost_ love, but she’ll survive because that’s just who she is. She’ll become a new person, grow and change and find love again and have a family of her own one day. She won’t have any regrets and she won’t want to go back and change anything.

She certainly wouldn’t give him a second chance at breaking her heart again -- god, no.

Emma promptly swallows back the lump in her throat and pays no mind to the voice in her head insisting her current state has nothing to do with Titanic and everything to do with her ex and how he’s been trying to reach out to her about wanting try again. To get back together. Asshole. Thinking he can just Waltz back into her life when things are _finally_ going well for her. Typical. He always did have poor timing.

But it doesn’t matter because this isn’t about him anyway. It’s about Rose and Jack.

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret soothes, sighing heavily as she walks over to lean across the back of the couch and pluck a tissue from the box. She makes a show of dabbing at Emma’s cheeks with a gentle hand. “You know they had to kill him off, the whole movie probably would have even flopped at the box office if he hadn’t died and Rose hadn’t ‘ _let go_.’”

Elsa nods solemnly, pursing her lips while she agrees with Mary Margaret’s sentiments. “Emotional manipulation at its finest.”

It sounds so ridiculous when put into that context, and it’s strangely comforting that she can always count on them to put things into perspective for her. No matter how morbid their tactics. She gives them a watery laugh. “I hate you guys.”

“You love us,” Mary Margaret counters, giving her a gentle smile and a sympathetic look before squeezing comfortingly at her shoulder.

“Why did you buy so much water?” Elsa wonders then, interrupting them and drawing Emma’s attention to her.

She shuffles around the couch, grabbing the bag of chips off the coffee table and turning back to lift Emma’s legs up so she can lay them across her lap as she plunks down and sits next to her. Elsa noisily opens the bag then tips it in her direction, silently offering her some.

But Emma can’t think about chips or Elsa’s understanding smile. She doesn’t know why, but that one innocent question triggers a fresh flood of tears, and it’s such a stupid gut reaction to have that she laughs too, hiccuping in between. 

“ _Because they were on sale!_ ” she sobs, burying her face between her hands.

She doesn’t protest when Elsa wraps an arm around her, doesn’t protest with her quiet, ‘ _it’s going to be okay,_ ’ before she rests her cheek against the top of Emma’s head. She most definitely doesn’t protest when Mary Margaret also envelops both of them in her arms and offers her own bit of comfort in the way that only Mary Margaret can. The sobs continue to wrack her body and the fact that she can’t control herself and stop with the stupid theatrics only worsens her irritation and makes it even harder to try to hold back all of the emotions she’s been keeping bottled up.

“He wants to get back together,” she whispers between sniffles.

“Is that what you want?” Mary Margaret asks gently.

“I don’t know what I want.”

It’s the truth, Neal hasn’t been in her life for nearly half a decade. Left her with nothing but a shattered heart in the wake of his betrayal and disappearance. It took years to pick herself back up and make something of herself, little orphan girl finally finding a place in the world. Then here comes her past, threatening to tear it all apart.

But they’ve been through a lot together too. For the longest time, they were all the other had. That doesn’t make what he did right, and it doesn’t mean that she’s just going to go falling into his arms now that he’s back in the picture. But it doesn’t erase their history or the love they had then either.

Alright, so maybe all of this _is_ about Neal.

_Ugh_. She’s so jumbled up and confused, with absolutely no idea what to do about any of it.

Luckily for her, the girls decide to keep her company for the rest of the evening -- snacking, drinking too much wine and treating themselves to all of the chocolate that Emma bought, all while watching sappy chick flick after sappy chick flick. It doesn’t fix her problems, but it helps her forget about them. At least, for a little while anyway.

\-----

If there’s one thing they’ll never seem to learn, it’s that it’s always a bad idea to have a girl’s night in the middle of the week. Too much wine, too many onion rings from Granny’s (eventually they’d taken a break and had gone for some deliciously greasy takeout between _Ever After_ and _The Proposal_ ), too much chocolate -- she definitely feels the ill-effects over overindulging.

Elsa and Mary Margaret are gone by the time she manages to get herself up and about, and she knows she should have bucked up and just gone to class, but she’s beyond grateful that they let her sleep in and get some rest from her emotionally taxing night.

She plops down onto the couch, hair sticking up every which way from her pillow, dressed in nothing but her pajamas and fluffy red robe and matching slippers. There’s a few aspirin in her hand and a glass of water in the other -- left on her nightstand by her roommates, she’s sure -- and as she takes the medication she says a silent prayer of thanks to both of them. Emma sets the glass on the coffee table when she’s finished and notes how clean and devoid of all evidence of last night’s festivities it is. That’s Mary Margaret’s doing, bless her heart, and Emma sighs because she knows she should be inspired by her friend to go and do something productive with her life, especially since she had gone and sulked enough the previous night.

Maybe she’ll go for a run. Or maybe she’ll get some coffee and sit out on the grass in the quad on campus. The day’s pretty enough for it and the sunshine would do her some good. Maybe she’ll get some ice cream. Maybe she should meet up with Neal and punch him in the face. (Okay, a bad idea, but one that would be immensely satisfying to follow through on.)

The doorbell rings, pulling her from her musings and though she glances over towards the front of their apartment, she doesn’t move. She isn’t really inclined to answer; she’s not in the mood for company. Especially since she’s trying to figure out what to do with the rest of her day. She decides that she’s not going to get it. Anyway, it’s probably for the best that she not talk to people more than she has to, so-

_Ding-dong_.

Damn. Well, somebody’s persistent.

Still she remains in place, thinking that whoever is on the other side of the door will simply go away if she continues to ignore them.

They don’t, and the doorbell chimes again.

Emma frowns, purses her lips together in annoyance and when the doorbell sounds for the fourth time, she swears and stands from the couch. “ _Coming!_ ” she calls out, mumbling under her breath. 

The last thing she is expecting when she opens the door is for someone dressed in a giant tan dog costume -- floppy ears included -- to start to sing to her. Dancing follows soon after -- to her bafflement -- while a bouquet of roses in one ‘paw’ and a heart-shaped box of what she assumes is chocolate in the other, serve as props throughout the number. Though muffled, the voice singing to her is clearly masculine in tone and she thinks she’s being serenaded with...some sort of... _love song_?

_Jesus Christ_.

Whoever is beneath the costume is really committed to the performance, though, and he’s just begun to howl something that sounds like ‘ _baby come back to me_ ’ when he finally looks in her direction. Then abruptly freezes in place, dance moves and singing coming to a halt.

She takes advantage of his silence to scowl at him and put her hands on her hips, hoping she looks intimidating rather than the grumpy mess she feels like (and mostly looks like).

“Are you kidding me right now?” she asks.

The person says nothing, just continues to stand there staring at her.

“Let me guess,” she bites, nodding at the items in his arms and taking her cues from the song choice. “From Neal?”

No response to that either.

“Well you can take those flowers back and tell him he can stick them up his ass.”

His silence persists and Emma rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh. She’s had it, it’s too early for these shenanigans anyway, but as she makes to close the door, a furry paw-shaped foot sticks itself in her threshold to thwart her.

“Wait! What about the chocolates?” comes the muffled question.

Her eyes narrow at that as she recognizes something familiar about the tone even through the mask. “What?”

Dog-man shuffles the bouquet into his other arm so he can pull off the head of the costume with his mitten-covered hand. “What about the chocolates? Where shall I tell him to stick those?”

She is treated to a cheeky smirk as her eyes meet a deep blue gaze she’s seen once before. Just yesterday, in fact. “ _Killian?_ ”

“Swan,” he greets. “Hello again.”

At her confused silence, he leans his shoulder casually against the doorframe and gives her his best smoldering look. He is utterly ridiculous with that expression on his face and his hair a tousled mess from the giant dog head now dangling from his hand. Don’t even get her started on how he looks completely unfazed by the plot twist presently taking shape before them.

( _Clearly_ , she watched too many chick flicks last night.)

“What are you doing?” she asks _._

“Delivering a candy gram, what does it look like?”

She blinks at him, bewildered. “Why?”

“I’m a candy gram deliverer? Well, part time anyway. Actually, just on Holidays really. Valentine’s Day is our most popular day for these.”

“Valentine’s Day is over.”

“I know.”

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to do anything but stare at him in complete and utter confusion. “Okay. But what the hell are you doing _here_?”

“Oh, I told you, I’m delivering a candy gram -- and flowers -- to this address for a one…” He glances down at the card on the box, angling his head to read the name written in block text. He frowns when he looks at her again. “Emma Swan.”

There’s a pause from him, the beat of silencing allowing her the fleeting thought that this is probably the most bizarre thing that’s happened to her in forever.

“From an awfully sorry bloke too, it seems,” he sighs, the corners of his mouth tugging down further.

There’s a weird edge to his voice, something she might be able to decipher if she wasn’t feeling like she were in a dream. This is so crazy. She didn’t even know that people still _did_ candy grams. “I don’t- I don’t want them.”

“Well, I can’t take them _back_ ,” he retorts. “We guarantee delivery. That’s our policy.”

“Well, _I_ don’t want to take them.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” She runs an agitated hand over her face. “I don’t want them. I already told you, he can take his chocolates and flowers and shove it.”

“So you’ve previously indicated,” he chuckles, attempting to pass her the contents in his arms anyway. “What’d he do?”

“Are you serious? None of your business.”

“Well, it has to be my business because I’m the one that has to explain to my boss _and_ the client why I wasn’t able to fulfill our company policy.”

“You’re crazy,” she tells him, shoving the flowers and candy back at him. “And I’m closing the door now. Goodbye, Killian. Have a great rest of your day.” 

She can see him start to protest, but she merely gives him a not so gentle push out of her doorway and firmly closes the door in his face, locking it for good measure. She waits for him to knock again, or to ring the doorbell again, thinking he might just be obnoxious enough to do it. But when she presses her ear to the door, she can faintly hear him mumbling to himself before he trudges away.

Satisfied that she’s taken care of that, she turns and leans her back against the door. Her head thumps noisily against the wood and she braces herself while she inhales deeply and exhales in the same manner. When her head doesn’t feel like it’s racing anymore, she goes to get ready for the day.

She’s not going to stay here. She’s not going going to waste what’s left of the afternoon and evening either, but she sure as hell is going to rid her mind of all thoughts of a giant dog-man with messy, dark hair and too-blue eyes.

Oh, and her ex too.

\-----

To her complete and utter horror, there is a giant, tan dog waiting for her outside of her early morning class the following day -- or rather, there’s a _Killian_ who’s _dressed_ like a giant, tan dog waiting for her outside of her early morning class the following day. Her jaw is a agape with with shock and disbelief before her eyes narrow and she marches straight over to him to give him a piece of her mind. He’s a quick one, though, and doesn’t give her the chance to get a word in, immediately powering up the wireless speakers synched to his iPhone.

The first note on the track makes her jump at the volume, the subsequent notes make her groan frustratedly and tilt her head up towards the heavens. She’s not exactly religious, but she wonders who the fuck she pissed off up there to deserve this kind of humiliation and nuisance in her life at such an ungodly hour. She sends up a quick prayer to whoever may be listening for the patience not to kill him (not to mention the _client_ that stupidly hired him in the first place).

Killian points at her and she _swears_ that even though she can’t see his face, he’s sporting a smirk a mile wide before the actual performance part even starts. He makes a show of dedicating the song to her, managing the feat without even saying a single word, and as soon as the first verse hits, she is helpless to do anything except stand there and watch the whole thing unfold.

He opens his mouth to sing and her cheeks flame at the discovery that his voice is far too deep to match the pitch of a pre-adolescent Justin Bieber, especially on his first single, ‘ _Baby_.’ Her hands come up to shield her eyes from the mess taking place right in front of her, but like any train wreck, she can’t look away and she spreads her fingers wide to peek between them. What a goddamn idiot he is.

_You know you love me_  
_I know you care_  
_Just shout whenever_  
_And I'll be there_  
_You are my love_  
_You are my heart_  
_And we would never ever  
_ _Ever be apart_

He’s even more flamboyant than last time, shocking her with his bewilderingly coordinated dance moves. He works the crowd that’s begun to gather outside of her classroom with the ease of a seasoned performer and she starts to wonder if perhaps her first impression of him wasn’t so far off. Maybe he secretly _is_ a rockstar. If not in this life, perhaps in a previous one. Either way, she won’t say she’s impressed by him, not in the least, but she _is_ impressed by his commitment to his job (particularly since it’s a part time one at that).

The audience is eating it up, right out of his paws, and when he gets to knees in front of her and starts howling with gusto about _thought you’d always be mine_ , she shoots him a dirty look. It only fuels his fire though, evident by the way he gets right up in her space, leaning forward so his deceivingly sweet puppy face is near hers like he means for her to kiss him or something. _Ugh_.

She swats his hand away when he reaches out to playfully touch her cheek with his mitten-clad hand, making the crowd go wild -- snickering and encouraging and annoying her to no end. He stills before her at that, stopping his serenade to stare at her like he’s _offended_ she had the gall to brush him off, and though she can’t see his face, she senses he’s got another smirk curling up his lips. It makes her want to smack the mask hard enough that it spins around and keeps him from being able to see through the mesh eyeholes for the rest of his performance.

Maybe he’ll even trip over himself and land right on his speakers. That’ll show him.

He moves away, jumping up onto a nearby planter and singing at the top of his lungs now, all while pointing at her with one hand as the other rests over his heart. The noise level from the crowd is deafening and the burn in her cheeks has moved all the way to the tips of her ears. It doesn’t help that for the finale, he produces another bouquet of flowers and box of chocolates to present to her on bended knee by the last notes of the song.

She rolls her eyes, refusing to take them despite his insistent offering of them, and the only reason she even acquiesces is because the audience gives a collective groan of disapproval. (Yep, she’s definitely going to kill him.) When his antics are finally complete and the crowd is happy once more, she clamps her hand around his arm, drags him to his feet and pulls him away. All the while, he gestures his appreciation for the crowd’s enthusiasm -- bowing and graciously thanking them with flourish as they continue to applaud him. _Idiot._

When they’re far enough away from prying eyes and curious ears, she shoves the items back into his arms. She can hear his chuckle as he moves them into the crook of one arm then proceeds to remove the dog head from his shoulders. His hair is mussed from the costume again and she has the sudden thought that it’s a good look for him, and he’s definitely living up to that rockstar persona with that messy sort of tousled appearance, especially when his eyes are bright and dancing with mirth the way they are now-

Good _god_ , what the hell is she saying?

She ignores the way he tries to tame his hair with his paw, the way he meets her gaze again and immediately gives her a charming smile that makes the dimples flanking his mouth deepen in his cheeks.

“Good morning, Swan,” he greets.

She glowers at him. “ _Seriously?_ ”

The look he gives her is completely innocent. “What?”

“How did you even find me?”

“I never stopped looking.” His delivery is so serious, so sincere-sounding it could almost be mistaken for romantic.

The corner of her mouth twitches but her resolve is firm, she will not be distracted by his charm or his flirting. Nope, not one bit. “You poked your head into every campus on building?” He nods. “You’re nuts.”

“ _Committed._ ”

“Semantics.”

He chuckles at her. “Actually your roommate, Elsa, took some pity on me and pointed me in the right direction when I kept throwing rocks and serenading the wrong window.”

_Jesus Christ_.

“Or she might have just been trying to get rid of me,” Killian shrugs, giving her another cheeky smile.

She imagines she must look like the color of a lobster with her temper in her cheeks. “I thought we agreed you were going to take these back? I told you, I don’t want them!”

“I never agreed, _you_ agreed,” he tells her. “Then promptly shut the door in my face.”

She hates that grin. She really, really hates that grin. She slams the flowers and candy back against his chest. “Semantics,” she snaps as she turns and walks away. “And it wasn’t anything you didn’t deserve!”

Just when she thinks she has the satisfaction of leaving with the last word, he calls, “See you in class, Swan!”

Emma rolls her eyes, but it takes everything she has not to smile to herself with her back to him.

* * *

_O is for the only one I see._

After the incident yesterday, she supposes it shouldn’t have surprised that he showed up at her place of work during her shift. He is stubborn and tenacious and annoyingly persistent -- qualities she probably would have appreciated under normal circumstances, but considering the reasons he’s even exhibiting those qualities, she can’t say she’s all that appreciative.

Granny walks out from the kitchen and abruptly freezes, narrowed eyes flickering back and forth between her and Killian. Emma swears if she gets fired over this, she really will kill the both of these idiot men. Old widow Lucas just rolls her eyes skyward, though, and goes about her business like there isn’t a college senior in a giant dog costume standing in the middle of her diner.

Meanwhile, Killian is just standing there, drawing the eyes of the other patrons and staring at her in a stance made more for battle than delivering flowers or candy. There’s a minor movement of his head, something she wouldn’t have seen if she hadn’t been paying so close attention to him, but she catches it all the same -- how his line of sight falls on the jukebox all the way across the room in the corner.

He wouldn’t dare.

But she takes off for it anyway, unwilling to risk it. She hears him swear and panic blooms in the pit of her stomach as she pushes for more speed. She knocks her hip into the counter in her scramble to get there before him, nearly trips over the leg of a chair and almost falls over when he collides into her from behind just as she makes it to the jukebox. She blocks his reach for one of the buttons on the machine, slapping his hand away and pointing a firm finger at him.

“Don’t even think about it.”

He sighs exasperatedly, voice muffled through the mask. “I’m just doing my job, love.”

“Well do it somewhere else, Killian, I am _working_ ,” she hisses the last part, lowering her voice slightly at the curious looks of the patrons. “If Granny fires me-”

He snorts at that. “She’s not going to fire you, Swan-”

“She will if you-”

“Will you please just take the bloody flowers and chocolates?” he hisses back, voice also lowering on the last few words when she gives him another warning look. “I have to keep coming back until you accept them, that’s part of the job description.”

“What else is on there? Stalking?”

“ _Delivery_.”

“ _Semantics,_ ” she insists, arguing with him.

“Swan-”

She pushes the candy and flowers back towards his chest then turns him around towards the door he came from before he can get another word in. “ _Goodbye_ , Killian.”

He huffs dramatically, facing forward from glancing at her over his shoulder to hang his head down in defeat, and _nope_ , she refuses to feel guilty or bad. He looks back at her once more, head still hanging pathetically down. His shoulders come up then down with another heavy sigh. The diner patrons _awwww_ their sympathy and make her want to scrub her hands over her face.

She shakes her head, unsure weather to be amused or annoyed, thinking amused is winning out until he turns back and beelines for the jukebox, catching her off guard and managing to maneuver around her. His hand slaps down on one of the buttons and a song starts to fill the room. _Well_ , annoyance definitely wins out.

Emma stalks back into the kitchen, grumbling about taking her fifteen minute break to no one in particular and slips out the back to Killian’s terribly off-key rendition of Adele’s latest single.

_Hello from the other side_  
_I must have called a thousand times_  
_To tell you I'm sorry for everything that I've done_  
_But when I call you never seem to be home_  
_Hello from the outside_  
_At least I can say that I've tried_  
_To tell you I'm sorry for breaking your heart_  
_But it don't matter  
_ _It clearly doesn't tear you apart anymore..._

\-----

This goes on for two more weeks, Killian showing up at random times -- her favorite coffee shop, as the model for her art class for the day (how he managed to swing _that_ , she’ll never figure out), outside of the gym, etc. -- with a box of chocolate and a bouquet of flowers in tow without fail. She sighs when she spots him in the grassy area across from her Creative Writing class after lecture is up, wandering over to him when he waves.

“Okay, but how long are you going to keep this up?” she asks.

“Well...until you accept these or that git decides your never ending silence and constant refusal of his tangible affections is answer enough.”

Her face scrunches at him but he merely shrugs.

“Until one of you gives, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, darling. Now,” he grins, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “What’ll it be today? Sinatra? Daughtry? One Direction?”

Emma groans and plops down on the blanket he’s laid out. She sprawls out onto her back, sighing heavily again and leaning up on her elbows as she contemplates his question. A smile suddenly splits her face. If he’s insistent about making her life miserable, well, the least she can do is return the favor.

“Celine Dion,” she smirks, a challenging lift to her eyebrow. “‘ _It’s All Coming Back To Me Now._ ’”

He exhales exasperatedly and tilts his head up to look at the sky, dog mask and all. “Bloody had to pick that one,” he grumbles.

“Yup!” she grins cheerfully. “Unless you’d prefer, ‘ _My Heart Will Go On_?’” 

He lowers his gaze to hers the same moment he moves his paws to his waist, and though she can’t see him, knows he’s staring at her in annoyance. “Very well, then. ‘ _It’s All Coming Back To Me Now_ ,’ it is.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, don’t be afraid to _really_ get into it.”

He shakes his head at her when she gestures exuberantly with a closed first, her laughter chiming delightedly in the space around them.

\-----

She’s exhausted when she lets herself into the apartment on Friday night, but it doesn’t keep her from making a ruckus as she enters -- kicking off her boots, letting her book bag fall beside them as she throws her keys onto the little table next to the door before unwinding the scarf from her neck, huffing and puffing as she grumbles to herself.

“Emma, is that...a _leaf_ in your hair?”

And grass stains on her jeans but who’s keeping track? “I took the long way home to avoid Killian,” she tells Elsa, trudging with heavy feet into the kitchen where her friend and roommate sits having tea and studying. “He was waiting outside of the library when I was getting ready to leave.”

Elsa is silent for a moment, eyes raking over Emma as she drags the chair across from her out of its place and noisily sits herself down into it.

“Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you look like you got into a fight with all of the shrubs on campus,” Elsa says.

“I climbed through Belle’s yard.”

“ _Oh_. Well that makes much more sense.”

“Yeah,” Emma nods in agreement.

“So...”

“Hmm?” She reaches for one of the cookies off Elsa’s plate.

“What did Killian sing this time?”

Emma snorts, breaking the sugary confection in half and popping it into her mouth. “Willie Nelson,” she sighs (not even noticing how wistful it sounds to her ears). “‘ _Always On My Mind_.’”

Elsa hums noncommittally, setting her pen down and fixing Emma with a look that can’t be interpreted as anything but... _weird_.

“He’s got a wide variety of tastes.”

“That he does,” Emma chuckles, propping her chin in her hand when she sets her elbow on the table and smiles at nothing in particular. She catches the increasingly strange look on Elsa’s face. “What?”

“You could stop this, you know. You just have to call Neal and tell him you don’t want to get back together.”

“Yeah,” she says, voice and expression carefully neutral as a large lump of emotion suddenly lodges itself just beneath her breastbone. Huh. “You’re right, I could.”

“But you won’t.” Elsa doesn’t exactly sigh, but it’s a near thing.

She neither confirms nor denies her friend’s allegations, but there’s a pang in her gut that she feels all the way to her toes. “Elsa-” 

“Emma, have you ever considered that maybe this isn’t about Neal at all? Maybe this is about Killian and how he wouldn’t come by anymore if he didn’t have anything to deliver to you.”

“Hey, if it means putting Neal out of some cash every week, well it’s the least that he deserves. Besides, the candy gram delivery season is slow right now, I’m just thinking about Killian’s livelihood, that’s all.”

It all sounds like excuses to her, particularly when Elsa just gives her another one of _those_ looks before returning to her studying and leaving Emma to brood over her thoughts.

(None of which are about Neal.)

( _Shit._ )

_Fin_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me guys, and thank you for all the lovely messages about this fic! Xx

****_V is very, very extraordinary_

It’s 4:37 PM on a Friday evening and Killian Jones is sitting on her doorstep. It’s a familiar scene save for one little detail: he’s in _normal_ clothes. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head, eyebrows arching up into her hairline. She’s almost forgotten what he looks like without the dog costume.

“ _Wow_ ,” she says, giving him a low, appreciative whistle that makes him shake his head at her antics. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Yeah, well, considering I was a...what did you say? ‘Dog-man’ following you around a few times, I can’t blame you.”

She snorts at that, tilts her face up and is reminded of how tall he is when he stands to greet her. “I think ‘a few times’ is a little bit of a understatement, wouldn’t you say?”

“Semantics,” he shrugs, scrunching up his face at her before the corners of his mouth tilt up into that charming smile she’s come to know so well.

“What are you doing here sans costume anyway?”

“Well, I came to see you, of course.”

She makes a noncommittal hum in the back of her throat, going back and forth on his honesty and her instinct. He _is_ sans flowers and chocolate, though, so point for him.

“I’m just wondering if you could help me study for the exam next Tuesday.”

She gives him an unconvinced, disbelieving look. “You’ve still got the highest grade in the class, nice try.”

“Alright,” he sighs, rocking back onto his heels and shoving his hands in his pockets in a telltale sign of nerves. “Then I’m wondering if I could help _you_ study for the exam next Tuesday.”

She knows he’s flirting by the grin he treats her with. She’s not sure how she feels about it yet. “No flowers? No chocolates?” she finally asks. “You’re losing your touch, Dog-man.”

He holds his finger up, signaling for her to wait one moment, then promptly disappears around the corner. Emma sighs when he reappears with said items. She should have known it was too good to be true, that Killian wasn’t here for her but rather to see that his job get done. (She’s not resentful, she’s _not_.)

“Thought I might have a better shot of convincing you take them without the costume,” he explains.

“Oh?” He’s got her intrigued now. “Why’s that?”

“My devilishly good looks?” He smiles at her, eyes teasing and playful. “My charming personality?”

She snorts at that and gives him an exasperated look.

“They can be very convincing,” he insists.

“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” she teases back. “I’m sure you’ve got a line of women somewhere ready to fall at your feet.”

He looks around, gesturing at the very empty hallway. “Well, considering you’re presently the only one here, perhaps you best get to it, Swan. Would hate to be the one to ruin my reputation, wouldn’t you?”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him before sighing again and nodding at the box. It’s been a long week and she can feel her resolve beginning to crumble. “Godiva?”

“Naturally,” he shrugs. “Only the best.”

She sighs back.

“What if I help you eat them?” he offers, stupid little hopeful look in his eyes. She knows that he can sense her mood too, he’s surprisingly good at it come to think of it. “We’ll just make sure to hide the evidence.”

“And what about the flowers? What do you expect me to do with those?”

“Well, we can’t let a perfectly beautiful bouquet go to waste, surely you have a vase lying around somewhere. Or a cup,” he winks.

\----------

It’s almost late into the evening by the time they find themselves sitting side by side on the balcony floor of her apartment. The box of chocolates lays between them, a half-eaten mess of discarded pieces they didn’t like and empty wrappers from the ones they did. They’ve each got a cold beer in one of their hands and she finds that it’s a nice evening treat on a cool Friday night.

The company’s not so bad either.

She’s genuinely surprised by him and the way he makes her laugh with such ease, how relaxed he helps her feel. In reality, she doesn’t know much about him, but just from tonight she feels like she’s known him forever.

“How did you get into the business of candy gram delivery anyway?” she wonders, snagging another confection from the box he picks up and holds out for her. It’s not very good with the beer, but she hardly cares, choosing a milk chocolate one and hoping it’s stuffed with nougat and not nuts like last time.

Killian takes his time answering the question, lips pressing together while he contemplates her. “You know Granny and Ruby Lucas?” he wonders while she eats her candy.

“Uh, yeah?” she laughs. “You serenaded me at the diner, where I work?”

“Oh,” he chuckles. “Right, right. You know, I got a slap upside the head for that dazzling little performance when I came back for dinner.”

“What do you mean?” she wonders, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Granny helped look after my brother Liam and I when our parents died. Took us in under her wing, raised the three of us like siblings.” It all makes sense now, and it definitely explains why Granny appeared so unfazed by the whole business of him causing a scene in her diner -- at least, in public anyway. “They’re family,” he shrugs, and though it’s seemingly nonchalant, she doesn’t miss the deep affection in his voice.

That her surprises her too -- his softness. He walks around like a bad boy in his dark colors and leather clothes and brooding, smoldering stares, his tongue quick and frequently laced with innuendos. But she’s come to find that he’s kind. Generous. Sentimental (though he’d never admit it). And incredibly loyal.  

“The whole operation is Ruby’s brainchild, actually,” Killian says. “But Granny put in the capital to kickstart it. I owe them a great deal, so I help out where I can.”

“And Liam?”

“That git? Couldn’t bloody carry a tune if he tried. He does a lot more of the labor intensive stuff. Granny’s stove breaks down, Liam’s there to fix it. Ruby’s car needs a tuneup, Liam takes care of that too.”

She hasn’t worked for Granny for long, but it doesn’t surprise her hearing about the Jones boys. Granny’s tough, but she’s got a tender heart (she always makes an extra serving of onion rings -- Emma’s favorite -- at the end of the night for Emma to take home, sending her off with a wink and a wave of her hand).

“So what did he do anyway?”

Her thoughts are interrupted by the question and she glances over at him with a thoughtful look as she chews her candy. “Who?”

“The poor bloke you won’t accept candy and flowers from.”

She stuffs the rest of the sugary confection in her mouth at the mention of Neal, chewing through the caramel and avoiding the question.

“Can’t be that bad if he’s so insistent about winning your affections. I can’t say I blame him,” he adds on with a soft little smile.

She swallows then takes a long drag from her beer bottle, ignoring the bitter taste of beer and chocolate. “He wants me back. We were high school sweethearts, nasty break-up, no contact for years, and then a few weeks ago, he waltzes back into my life fully expecting me to take him back just because _he’s_ decided he wants to give things another try.”

“And I take it from your disdainful tone, you _don’t_?” he asks, expression carefully neutral.

The question is quiet, careful, and maybe it’s the buzz from the beer or the sugar rush from the candy, but she thinks he might even sound a little...hopeful? (She doesn’t know how to feel about that either.)

“I don’t know,” she tells him truthfully, surprised that she wants to be honest with him. “It’s been a long time. We’re different people now and...” She sighs heavily, heart aching and full with the memories of a lost first love.

“He hurt you,” Killian says quietly.

She gives a wry laugh at that, takes another sip of her beer and tries to ignore the feelings blooming in her chest she thought she’d long-since buried -- hurt, resentment, anger.

Killian surprises her when he abruptly stands, excusing himself politely. She turns to glance at him over her shoulder as he goes, craning her neck to try to see where he’s gone off to in her apartment. When he returns, he’s got the flowers in hand. She watches him as he tosses them over the balcony, her eyes wide with shock.

“He’s a fool, and I’m bloody glad you didn’t accept them,” he says, wiping his hands together and dusting himself clean of the offending blooms.

She laughs, amused and delighted while her gazes latches onto his. “Me too.”

Killian smiles at her quiet admission and she smiles back. There’s something strange that happens in that moment, some kind of...shift out of place that happens in the world while they continue to look at each other. A shift inside her, between them. She can’t breathe, suddenly, can’t think about anything beyond the sincerity in his eyes, the blatant affection. It’s staggering and overwhelming and-  

It’s abruptly interrupted by the slam of the front door and Mary Margaret’s voice cutting through the thick, tension-filled silence. “Emma? Hey, what’s with the flowers underneath our- _oh_. Hello.” she greets Killian, giving Emma a pointed look. “I didn’t realize you had... _company_.”

“Mary Margaret, this is Killian,” she introduces them, reflexively accepting Killian’s outstretched hand as he helps her up to her feet. “My puppy stalker.”

“ _Hey!_ ” he whines, mock-offended.

She merely rolls her eyes at him. “Killian, Mary Margaret. My other roommate.”

“Nice to meet you, Killian,” Mary Margaret greets, and Emma doesn’t realize she’d still been holding his hand until he releases hers to shake Mary Margaret’s.

“Nice to meet you, too. So,” he says slowly, giving Emma a sidelong glance, lips curved up in a pleased smile. “You seem to have heard an awful lot about me.”

“All bad things,” Emma insists. “Trust me.”

But Mary Margaret brushes her aside. “You don’t look like an annoying candy gram deliverer,” she says to Killian.

“ _Mary Margaret,_ ” Emma hisses.

“What? Well he _doesn’t_ , I mean, _look_ at him,” she answers.

“Thank you,” he tells Mary Margaret with a chuckle, bowing with obnoxious flourish. Emma kicks his boot with hers, makes him straighten and smirk at her.

“You’re welcome,” Mary Margaret replies.

“I’m glad someone’s noticed,” he winks at her with a pointed look to Emma.

Emma rolls her eyes, grabbing Killian by the lapel of his jacket. “Okay, it’s time for you to go. Say goodbye to Mary Margaret.”

“Wait,” he protests. “Don’t you need my help with the exam?”

“No.”

“Okay, well what about dinner?”

“What about it, Killian?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me to stay for it?”

“Goodnight, Killian.”

“Goodnight, Killian!” Mary Margaret echoes with a friendly wave. “See you soon!”

“Oh, I’d be delighted-”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Emma interjects.

“Yes, I would-”

“Goodnight, _Killian._ ” She says, taking his jacket off the rack and passing it to him.

“I like your roommate,” he tells her, winking as he shrugs into his jacket. “She likes me.”

“She likes everyone.”

Killian smiles, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “I like you like this. Smiling. Happy. It suits you.”

She rolls her eyes. “ _Goodnight, Killian_.”

He waits a beat, the corners of his mouth tipped up, eyes soft under the hallway lights. “Goodnight, Emma.”

His voice is quiet, tone gentle, and her stomach tightens up into knots. He stares at her for a second more then turns to walk away, glancing over his shoulder as he goes and she feels it again, that _shifting_ sensation.

(And maybe it’s not so much a shift _out_ of place as it is _into_.)

\----------

She texts Neal that night, unable to sleep, tells him she’s sorry. She’ll always care about him, but things are different now. She’s changed.

It takes him awhile to respond, and she’s not surprised, but his reply comes just as she’s about to fall asleep.

_I love you, Emma. And I’m sorry._

There are tears, but she expected there to be, and a sad little smile as she reads the message one last time. She takes one, deep steadying breath, deletes the message -- deletes his contact -- powers off her phone, and lets him go.

* * *

_E is even more than anyone that you adore_

There’s a flower on her desk a few days later, a tiny little sprig of Forget Me Not’s, and when her eyes meet Killian’s from his seat in the back of the room, he smiles.

Something unfurls in her chest, the same sensation she’d had just a few nights back when he’d left her apartment after spending the evening drinking beer and eating too much chocolate with her. She swallows around the lump in her throat as her eyes drop back down to the little flowers. Her face is carefully neutral despite feeling a blush creep into her cheeks. Luckily, the professor has impeccable timing and chooses that precise moment to walk into class. Emma takes that as her cue to settle in for the lecture, turning away from Killian and his all too perceptive gaze.

She can see the professor’s mouth moving, hear the words coming from his mouth, but she can’t process them -- they just mesh together, slipping into one ear and out the other. Emma takes no notes, too preoccupied with twirling the bloom between her fingers for the duration of class. At the end of the hour, she gathers her belongings and casually shoots a glance towards the back row. It’s devoid of dashing rapscallion and she finds herself frowning as she slings her book bag onto her shoulder and prepares to leave the room. When she turns, she nearly jumps out of her skin, Killian sitting on the desk in front of her, devilish grin on his face.

“Looking for someone, darling?”

Her eyes roll skyward and she brushes past him without a word, completely missing the triumphant smile on his face when she _doesn’t_ return the flowers to him.

\----------

He comes over next weekend to study with her, explaining the intricacies of this past week’s chapter. He leans in close, chest brushing against her arm as he points out a section and highlights key points to her, and even though she notices his rather daring proximity, she makes no comment or takes any action on the matter. They get into a debate later, more tense than heated, but she’s not entirely sure it has anything to do with the text, and when Elsa comes home and finds them practically nose to nose in the middle of their argument, Emma jumps up from her seat to greet her roommate and put some distance between them.

Elsa gives her knowing looking, some little half smirk that has Emma’s cheeks burning hot as Elsa retreats quietly to her room with a quick wave to Killian. Emma watches her friend go, takes a moment to gather herself before she glances back at Killian and finds him studying her carefully, gaze full of amusement. She clears her throat, wipes her clammy palms on her jeans and asks him if he wants anything before she excuses herself to the kitchen.

They’re back to business after that, moving on to the last part of the chapter with no other incidents or interruptions. When he leaves, and she walks him to the door, she has a moment of panic when he leans down, right into her space, hovering over her until her eyes go wide and she feels her breath catch. Her mind races a mile a minute and she’s worried that he’s going to kiss her -- worse, that she’s going to _let_ him.

He doesn’t kiss her though, just gives her knowing smile and reaches back behind her for the keys he’d left on the stand by the door.

“You’re in the way a bit, love,” he says, eyes steady on hers.

She swallows thickly. “Right, sorry,” she replies, scrambling to give him space and almost wincing at the hoarseness of her voice.

He grins at her, slinging his backpack higher onto his shoulder. “Goodnight, Swan,” he tells her.

Her smile is a little tight and she waves him off as he walks through her door. She latches it behind him and turns back into her apartment, nearly jumps through the roof when she finds Elsa leaning against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest, watching her with a raised eyebrow.

“Jesus Christ, you scared me!”

Elsa just continues to stare at her expectantly.

“ _What?_ ” Emma asks, tone strangely defensive and biting.

Elsa shrugs and makes Emma rolls her eyes again as she cleans up her study materials and retreats to her room. Elsa’s knowing look and Killian’s blue eyes haunt her through her evening routine.

\----------

He asks her if she wants to ‘ _Netflix and chill_ ,’ a suggestive little gleam in his eyes and a teasing little smirk curling up the corners of his lips that she knows is more for show than anything else. Especially when he looks completely surprised that she says yes.

They do just watch Netflix and they do _just_ chill, sharing a box of pizza and a carton of ice cream between them in his apartment. She tells him about Neal, about how she’d told him she didn’t want to get back together. Killian watches her the whole time, gaze unwavering. When she’s finished with her story, he nods his head and swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything on the matter, but he snags their beers off the coffee table and clinks the necks together in a silent toast. She doesn’t miss the smile in his eyes or the way his mouth tugs up gently, though, and that makes her smile in turn, hiding it behind the bottle she tips up for another sip of beer.

She wakes up around the 2:00 AM hour with her head on his shoulder and his arm curled around her, and she feels her heart slam up into her throat.

She slips quietly from his embrace, deciding she’s idled long enough, and does a little bit of clean up before taking the throw off his couch and tucking it around him. She tries to ignore the way his hair falls over his brow, the itch in her fingers that long to brush it aside, and how deceivingly innocent and harmless he looks in his sleep.

He’s not harmless, she knows by the way the heel of her hand rubs over the ache in her chest, right over her heart. She leaves like a thief in the night. Even though the only one who’s gone around stealing things is _him_. Like her heart. Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

(She’s so screwed.)

\----------

Emma goes with him to Ruby’s game night at the campus coffee shop, kicks his ass at Pictionary (well, her team kicks his team’s ass, but those are merely semantics -- he laughs when she tells him as much and she swats his hand away when he reaches up to playfully flick her on the nose).

She has to retaliate, of course, chasing after him as he flees out the door with their laughter echoing into the night. She’s quick, but he’s quicker, and she doesn’t know why she does, perhaps it’s instinct coupled with annoyance, but she unscrews the cap on the water bottle in her hand and tosses it at him, effectively dousing him with water.

He yelps when the liquid makes contact, whirling on her with a feral look in his eyes that makes her stop in her tracks. They’re both breathing hard, chests rising and falling and moving in tandem as they stare at one another. His brow quirks up and it’s a challenge if she’s ever seen one.

 _Uh-oh_.

She chucks the bottle at him and takes off squealing, and while she’s quick, he’s definitely much quicker, and it doesn’t take him long to catch up to her. He wraps his arms around her from behind, lifting her off her feet to spin her around.

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” he asks.

She can’t help but laugh at the positively _offended_ tone in his voice and wriggles against his hold.

“All’s fair in game night and war!” she manages to get out between fits of giggling.

“ _Fair?_ Oh, I’ll show you fair!” and his fingers dig into her ribs.

He finds exactly where she’s ticklish, focusing in on that spot while she simultaneous laughs and pleads for mercy. She accidentally catches his foot and he swears, their legs tangling and bodies colliding. One of them loses their balance and they go down in a mess of mutual cries and a tangle of limbs. Killian breaks their fall, taking the brunt of the impact and all of her weight and this time _she_ swears.

“Shit, are you okay?” she asks, concern flitting across her face.

“If you move your arm from my spleen, I’ll be just grand, Swan,” he wheezes.

She smiles at him, full of affection and adjusts her weight over him, inadvertently aligning their bodies in just the perfect way for- oh.

Their eyes snap to each other’s, both inhaling a sharp breath and holding each other’s gazes.

 _Ohh_.

She watches him swallow thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing on his neck and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker to her mouth. _He_ definitely doesn’t miss the way her own eyes flicker to his either.

She doesn’t know what comes over her, but one second she’s drowning in the depths of his blue eyes and the next she’s drowning in the taste of his mouth and the heady way he angles his head to deepen the kiss.

There is nothing slow or gentle about their coming together -- the kiss is raw, open-mouthed, carnal, a buildup of all the tension that’s been between them since their first meeting at the supermarket, a buildup of all the feelings she’s locked away -- or thought she had, anyway -- and a buildup of all the feelings she’s known he’s had for her since that first smile he’d given her as he’d passed her a stupid bottle of water.

She leads with her loins, rather than her brain, swiping her tongue over his bottom lip. But when he opens his mouth at her insistence, she takes the opportunity to nip at his bottom lip instead, drawing it between her teeth and worrying at the kiss-swollen skin.

A moan tears from his throat, a delicious little sound she feels reverberate through her chest and causes desire to ignite like molten fire through her veins. He doesn’t back down, kissing her back just as fervently. His tongue dips into her mouth and she moans too, feeling him press his hips up and using the ground as leverage to swap their positions so he rests in the cradle of her thighs.

 _Holy shit_.

He breaks the kiss, forehead pressed tightly to hers, nose nudging at hers. Their breaths are a broken tune that perfectly match to time.

“Swan,” he says, and his voice sounds as wrecked as he looks. “Emma, I-”

She doesn’t give him a chance to say anything, hand snaking up his chest and around to grip the back of his head, fingers twisting in the silken strands of dark hair as she tugs him down for another kiss. He doesn’t argue, letting her lead -- _always_ letting her lead -- set the tempo, the force, the feeling.

“ _Yowza!_ ” Someone yells from across the quad.

There’s a wolf whistle, obnoxiously loud and echoing around them.

“ _Bow-chika-wow-wow!_ ”

There’s another round of encouragement that effectively shatters the moment and she can’t even look at him as she nudges him off of her. She can feel his eyes on her the entire time, can feel the ghost of his mouth on hers, but she simply gets up and makes a show of dusting herself off.

She runs her hands through her hair, ignoring the adorable way his hair is mussed from her own fingers, and the little pieces of grass that cling to the ends.

“I’m going back inside,” she tells him quietly. “Don’t follow me. Wait five minutes or...something.”

“As you wish,” she hears him say.

She walks away a little dazed, legs shaky and heart continuing to hammer wildly against her ribs. But when she enters the coffee shop, it’s with the intent to get her things. She’s gone before his five minutes is up, slipping out the back and never looking back.

* * *

_Love is all that I can give to you_

She’s a mopey mess for the rest of the week and partially into the next. She skips class on Tuesday, for reasons entirely unrelated to ‘ _The Incident_ ’ (as her roommates have taken to calling it), even if she hasn’t looked at her phone since then. But that has nothing to do with ‘ _The Incident_ ’ either. It actually just died on Saturday from low battery, and while she imagines there are a number of missed calls and text messages for her, she hasn’t really been inclined to bother with charging it.

It’s been an incredibly unproductive week. She’s come to the conclusion that she severely sucks at life, particularly since she’s gone and ruined hers and made a mess of things _again_. Plus, in all honesty, she hasn’t done much of anything except lay in bed and watch Netflix and eat junk food and obviously not think about Killian Jones.

She’d even called in sick at work, much to Granny’s chagrin, but she just hasn’t been feeling up to dealing with people let alone having to take their order and clean up after them and serve them. She’s being completely anti-social, holed up in her room as she has been, ignoring Mary Margaret and Elsa’s invitations to join them for meals.

It’s Thursday when Elsa and Mary Margaret barge into her room (more like pick the lock -- she’ll forever be mad that she taught them how to do it in the first place) and drag her surprised form kicking and screaming into the bathroom to shower. It’s a fight getting her undressed and under the spray, a fight keeping her in there, but Mary Margaret is relentless and stronger than she looks for her small frame and deceptively ruthless despite her sweet pixie face and soft demeanor. The hag. When that relatively -- hah -- ‘painless’ experience is done, Elsa wraps her up in a towel and sends her off to her room with an order to dress.

Naturally, she climbs back into bed, towel and all instead, and the next time Elsa and Mary Margaret come back to check on her progress, they are far less nicer than they had been the first time, and that first time wasn’t even pleasant, at least, for Emma anyway.

They force her into her GNO (‘girls’ night out’) best -- black dress, black stilettos -- and make a fuss over her hair and make-up. While they go off to finish getting ready themselves, they leave Emma confined to the couch with the threat that they’ll simply drag her out into public in her pjs if she tries to get back into them. So she stays put, grumbling and mopey and absolutely miserable. They make her go get drinks with them at the local pub, The Rabbit Hole, and Emma’s not really in the mood, but she knows they’ll hound at her until she acquiesces.

The conversation flows stilted and tense, Emma unwilling to budge an inch on speaking to either of them about the things they really want to speak with her about. She lets them take care of the ordering, she’s not in the mood to eat anyway, and secretly whoops in triumph after the first round of shots hit the table.

She doesn’t hesitate in claiming one for herself, not evening bother to toast or click her glasses against the other girls’ shots, simply downs the burning liquid as if her life depended on it. It’s rum, and she’s no expert, but it’s _good_ , and she signals the waitress for another round, ignoring the stolen glances between Mary Margaret and Elsa. They wanted to drag her out here, so they’ll have to suffer with the consequences.

The consequences come sooner rather than later.

Three shots in and Emma’s ranting about Killian -- what an idiot he is, what an idiot _she_ is, how stupidly sweet and kind and funny he is. Four shots in and Elsa has to place her hand on her shoulder and push down to keep her from getting up to go to the closest pay phone (or borrowing someone’s cell phone) to call him. (When did she even have his number memorized to begin with? _When did she even get his number into her phone?_ Jesus Christ). Five shots in and she’s a slurring mess, her heart on her sleeve and her emotions pouring out of her as freely as the liquid burning down her throat. She pulls the girls in with an arm around each of them, hugging them as the tears start streaming down her face and she _finally_ confesses her deepest, darkest, innermost thoughts.

Well. Just one thought. One thought that’s been dominating her mind and driving her crazy, the source for all of this past week’s misery -- _she likes him_.

Not just likes him, but _likes_ likes him, the whole nine yards -- ‘butterflies in the tummy, can’t stop thinking about him, can’t eat, can’t sleep, kicking herself in the ass cuz she’s an idiot’ kind of _likes_ him.

The girls don’t have to say anything, they’re mutual _we know_ ’s hanging silently in the air around them. They do give her sympathetic looks though, and while they’re wonderfully supportive friends, they’re also terribly traitorous, making her face more of her feelings like that, and in such a short amount of time from her first confession. She hasn’t even had another shot yet.

But they’re a persistent bunch, wanting to know what she plans to do about the whole thing.

She tells them she has no clue, and it’s not a lie, because she _doesn’t_ know what to do or where to even start.

“He’s not Neal,” Elsa reminds her gently.

But _god_ , does she know that already. She _knows_ he’s not Neal, not even close. Too kind, too loyal, too loving, too _constant_.

“Did I fuck it up?” she asks Mary Margaret, a little sniffly, a little teary-eyed.

All she gets is a pat to the head, like a child needing to be consoled, and she hiccups, sniffling some more before more waterworks come.

\----------

She finally gets around to charging her phone, and as expected, there are a number of missed calls and text messages from him. Guilt eats at her but she’s not brave enough to reach out and contact him so she puts the phone down and absolutely doesn’t wait for him to call her first. Even if she just sits at her desk for the better part of two hours staring at the black screen of her phone with her chin pillowed on her arms, willing him to call.

He doesn’t show up to class on Tuesday and she’s absolutely miserable for it, going home and curling up on the couch with wine and _How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days_.

By Saturday, with no sign of Killian at all, she knows she’s fucked up and she knows that she misses him. She knows that she wants him back -- preferably in the romantic sense but at this point, she’ll take whatever she can get. She knows she hurt him, what she did was completely unfair. She’s just so...screwed up and he’s been everything she doesn’t deserve.

But she _likes_ him and she thinks she might even -- _oh god_ \-- _love_ him.

\----------

She’s an idiot. She’s a goddamn idiot showing up to his apartment complex like this, throwing _rocks_ at his window like some kind of chick flick cliche role reversal thing.

“Killian?” she calls, throwing another pebble. “Killian!”

She can’t believe she’s doing this.

“Killian! I- I know you’re in there.” She rears back with her arm, lets the tiny rock fly and ping against the window again. “Look, I’m _sorry_ , okay? I shouldn’t have run off, and I shouldn’t have ignored you like that. I’m an idiot, alright?”

What the fuck is she doing. Seriously. _What is she doing?_

“Killian,” she sighs, saying his name a little louder this time. “Killian, I’m _sorry_! I was scared. I was scared about your feelings for me and I was scared about-” She huffs a little, closes her eyes and let’s the words seep into her chest, lets them sit there for a moment while she gathers her courage. “I was scared about _my_ feelings for _you_!”

 _Ping-ping_. Two stones this time.

And still no answer. Is she too late? Has she seriously messed up? Dread creeps into her stomach, makes her chest ache something fierce.

“Killian!” _Throw_. _Ping_. “Don’t make me serenade you! You know I can’t sing! Kil-”

The window abruptly opens and the dark head of hair that appears through it is _most definitely not_ Killian.

“Do you _mind_? It’s eight o’clock in the bloody morning!”

She cringes, wincing as she lifts her hand up in apology. “Sorry, Liam! But do you know where-”

She cuts off and jolts at the sound of the window being aggressively shut. She sighs in frustration, feels like she’s on the edge of tears, and turns to leave dejectedly.

And abruptly freezes in place when her gaze locks on a familiar pair of deep blue eyes.

Killian is there, looking as worse for the wear as she does, and it makes her feel a teensy bit better. He looks stunned too and that makes her heart slam up into her throat, makes her feel like an even bigger ass that she hadn’t treated his heart as carefully as he had treated hers.

Even still, the forgiveness already in his eyes makes it all the more worse for her.

“You _do_ sing terribly,” he concurs.

“Yeah, well, not all of us are born in leather and eyeliner, Rockstar,” she shrugs. She means for her voice to be teasing, but she’s so caught up in the emotions, in seeing him, and having him so close again, that it comes out on a choked breath instead.

“What... _are_ your...feelings, Swan?” he wonders, eyes unwavering on hers.

She sighs, holds his gaze for a moment more. He’s always been much better with words than she has -- charming, flirty, honest, beautiful words. She feels her heart beat in her chest -- _ba-dum, ba-dum_ \-- and promptly launches herself at him, arms around his neck, toes barely on the ground anymore as he lifts her up and meets the crushing of her lips to his.

Everything settles inside her, leaving her with a peaceful calm that has been so absent when _he’d_ been absent. It’s amazing how far gone she is already, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

The kiss is quieter than the first time -- no less passionate, but far more emotional -- perhaps because her walls are down now, either way, she feels it burn all the way to the tips of her toes, scorching heat that simultaneously fills her up and breaks her apart in the best possible way.

He angles his head to deepen the kiss, uses his nose to guide her so he can better claim her mouth. She likes the way his nose presses into her cheek, the way his hand tangles in her hair before he drags his thumb along her jaw and presses his thumb into the dent in her chin. It’s a sweet gesture, one she thinks she wouldn’t mind getting used to if he felt so inclined to do it again.

They break for air with the nudging of her lips against against. She smiles at him, a soft, sweet thing that he returns, and she reaches around, tracing over the dimple in his cheek affectionately. She sighs again as she rests her forehead against his.

He can’t stop touching her, hand smoothing down her back then inching upwards once more, fingers twisting in the ends of her hair, caressing her shoulder, down her arm then trailing back up, all while his other hand remains anchored to her jaw, holding her in place while he lingers in her space and seems to be relishing in their closeness and newfound intimacy.

“Are you sure?” he asks, all the wonder in his voice.

She smiles again, grin blooming wide as she nods her head against his. She drags her hands down from his hair to his shoulders, gripping for purchase as she pulls away to look at him and meet his gaze. It’s important, she can sense that it’s important for her to say the words while he’s looking at her and she’s looking at him.

“Yeah,” she tells him with a firm nod, and then she’s leaning forward again, lips hovering over his. “Yes,” she says again, more firmly this time. “I’m sure.”

She feels his answering smile curve up the corners of his mouth just before he leans forward again, effectively closing the space between them and kissing her once more.

_(Love is more than just a game for two_

_Two in love can make it_

_Take my heart and please don’t break it_

_Love was made for me and you)_

_Fin_


End file.
